


If Only

by Luka



Category: Primeval
Genre: Gen, M/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 13:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19476976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/pseuds/Luka
Summary: The Special Forces lads’ traditional pre-Christmas skiing holiday features shocks, tantrums and the occasional day on the ski slopes.





	If Only

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a Primeval Denial Secret Santa, where the prompts were:
> 
> 1\. Nothing lasts forever – except hope  
> 2\. "The nights are colder now; maybe I should close the door  
> 3\. There’s a kind of magic in the air  
> 4\. Who wants to live forever?
> 
> Ditzy, Lyle, Blade and Finn appear by kind permission of Fredbassett. Lavender is mine.

“Do you _like_ hospital food? Or have you got a death wish?” Ditzy fixed Lyle with a disbelieving stare.

Lyle’s shrug was supposed to be nonchalant, but it missed by a mile.

“You must be fucking insane. He’ll rip your balls off and hand them to you on a plate with roast potatoes, sprouts and gravy.”

“Maybe …”

“No fucking maybe about it. You got yourself into this one, sonny Jim. You get yourself out. And if you’ve fucked up the whole holiday, I’ll dismember you myself with Blade’s rustiest knife.” 

And Ditzy stalked out, slamming the door for extra effect as he went. He heard Lyle unleash what might be termed a rack of fucks, followed by a metallic clang which was presumably a hard object connecting with the lockers. Ditzy would cheerfully have substituted Lyle’s head in place of the lockers.

Blade was perched on the windowsill in the room that Major Preston had somehow commandeered for what he called their ‘Super-Secret Squirrel Shenanigans’ – anomalies, dinosaurs, smug government hatchet men and infuriating academics could consequently be discussed away from flapping ears elsewhere on the base. Four of them in there, though, and it was over-crowded. As Ditzy stomped in, Blade looked up from where he was sharpening a knife that looked to be first cousin of a Samurai sword.

“What was all that about?”

“All what?” said Ditzy, flicking the switch on the kettle and cursing luridly as it tripped the system again.

Blade rolled his eyes, held out his hand for the kettle and rapidly re-wired the plug. “So what’s he done now?”

Ditzy pulled a can of Coke out of the small fridge, took a mouthful, winced and tipped the rest out of the window. “Invited Stephen on the skiing holiday.”

“He’s what? Is he fucking insane?”

“Very probably.” Ditzy decided not to comment on the fact that most people thought Blade’s sanity was open to question.

“Why?”

“He says there’s no point wasting the place if Kermit can’t go.”

Blade stared out of the window across a rain-lashed Hereford parade ground where Sgt Tait was giving some new recruits a hard time.

“What?” said Ditzy irritably, usually well-versed in interpreting Blade’s silences.

“He’s got a point.”

“And there are any number of people he could have asked. Adey …”

“Who’s off on the regiment rugby tour. And don’t bother giving me a list of the others. You know fucking well why he’s done it.”

Ditzy acknowledged this with an all-purpose shrug. “And if I thought he had any chance of success, I’d be the first one to be cheering. But the stubborn fucker won’t see sense.”

“Who’s going to tell him?”

Ditzy bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile. “Not me.”

~*~*~*

The minibus careered around the corner and screeched to a halt about a foot from where Finn was perched on a mountain of rucksacks, bags and skiing equipment. Lyle jumped down from behind the wheel and immediately started waving his arms and trying to direct the packing operations.

Stephen was standing to one side, looking lonely and lost. Ditzy sighed quietly and commandeered him to help load the kit. Stephen managed the trace of a grateful smile and started passing Ditzy the skis. But his face lost all expression when he turned around to grab a rucksack and saw Ryan staring at them.

“What’s he doing here?” Ryan didn’t bother to lower his voice, turning a full-beam glare onto Lyle.

“Kermit can’t come and it’s a shame to waste the space,” said Lyle, feigning innocence.

“If this is a fucking set-up …”

“Of course it isn’t. Why should it be?”

“You know why.”

Lyle shrugged.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why should I have done? It’s not just up to you who comes on holiday with the group.”

“This is different.”

Ditzy had had enough. “Tom, shut the fuck up and don’t be so fucking obnoxious. This isn’t all about you for fucking once. Now let’s get the fucking stuff in the minibus or we’ll miss the fucking Eurotunnel booking.”

Ditzy rarely lost his temper or challenged Ryan so directly, so his outburst did the trick. Ryan stared at him in astonishment for a moment or two, then grabbed his rucksack and skis, and threw them into the vehicle. He commandeered the seat at the back, pulled his baseball cap over his eyes and went to sleep before they’d even reached the motorway.

Blade was taking the first turn at the wheel, so Ditzy plonked himself down beside Lyle. “I thought you’d told him.”

“So sue me. I lied,” said Lyle smugly.

“Jon, you’re a gold medal-winning shit for brains.”

“So I’m told all the time!”

Ditzy just shook his head and went back to his own seat. It was going to be a long week.

~*~*~*

Eighteen hours and 850 miles later, Lyle guided the minibus to a halt beside a chalet straight out of a picture postcard. He’d been fairly close-lipped about the whole arrangements, and the others had let him get on with it – it was one way of keeping him out of trouble, for a start. The pre-Christmas skiing trip had started five years previously, and was usually organised by Kermit, who was a fearless and talented skier. But a broken leg after a run-in with something large, ugly and prehistoric had meant that the only slope he’d be attempting for a while was the stairs at home. Ditzy, who could ski perfectly respectably but didn’t enjoy it as much as the others did, assumed they wouldn’t go and was all for suggesting a long weekend in Dublin or Prague. But then Lyle assured them he had a cunning plan …

“This is all very posh,” said Ditzy, surveying the exclusive surroundings. Usually they went to el cheapo resorts much beloved of the British military off-duty, which guaranteed a week of drinking, willy-waving and an overload of testosterone. 

“Belongs to my stepfather,” said Lyle casually, prodding Finn in the ribs to wake him up.

Ditzy raised his eyebrows, and merely said: “Very good of him to let us stay. He does know, I trust?”

“Of course. I’ve got an open invitation to use the chalet as often as I like. He and my mother use it half a dozen times a year, tops. They prefer the one in Italy.”

Ditzy knew that Lyle’s stepfather was richer than Croesus from some throwaway comment Lyle had made back in the mists of time. He wondered if he should be opening a book on how long it took Finn to disgrace himself in such an upmarket setting.

Lyle shouldered his kit and led the way down the path to the chalet. A petite blonde girl with her hair in an Alice band was setting glasses on a large pine table. She looked up as the door opened.

“Lavvie, Lavvie!” Lyle swept her off her feet and twirled her around.

Finn looked faintly shocked – he was always chivalrous around young women, until he inevitably disgraced himself by farting, falling over his shoelaces or telling a dirty joke. “Classy, mate, very classy. And you must have a bladder the size of a teabag, because all you’ve done is wee between the tunnel and here! You went twice at those last services.”

“Cousin Jonathan!” The blonde girl beamed and kissed Lyle’s cheek.

“Lads, this is my cousin Lavender. She’s the chalet girl here. Well, in between trying to get selected for the British downhill skiing team. Lav, these are my workmates – Ryan, David, Niall, Robbie and Stephen.”

“Nice to meet you, boys. Now, I thought we’d have stew tonight. How does that sound? If you let me know what sort of things you like eating I’ll do a shop tomorrow. And let me show you where the bedrooms are. I’ve booked ski passes for the morning, and then you can let me know what you want to do for the rest of the holiday. If you like ice-skating, I can fix you up with passes for that as well. There’s loads going on here, so you won’t have time to be bored!”

It was obvious that she wasn’t expecting answers, so they smiled obediently and let her organise the rooms for them. Lyle grinned at Stephen and said: “We get the master suite, mate. The peasants can rough it elsewhere.”

Roughing it was a slight exaggeration. The other two double bedrooms both had an en-suite shower and toilet. The beds were queen-sized and covered with cheerful patchwork quilts. Ditzy bounced on his and proclaimed it to be comfy. Ryan grunted and dumped his rucksack in a corner. Ditzy toyed with tearing a strip off the miserable fucker, who’d been monosyllabic all the way down, but decided to keep his powder dry for the moment.

A roaring open fire, with chairs and sofas arranged around it, dominated the chalet’s main room. At the far end of the room was a kitchen, fitted with a large pine table and matching chairs. Lavender was passing bowls of stew over to Lyle and still talking nineteen to the dozen.

“It’s so lovely to see you, Jonathan. Aunt Julia said you’d be coming. She and Uncle Henry were here last week.”

“Good grief, my mother didn’t ski, did she?”

“Of course she didn’t! She sat outside, mainlined coffee, smoked like a chimney and spent most of the week on her mobile after some story.”

“Sounds par for the course.”

“Aunt Julia said you’d be bringing your new chap. She says he’s a perfect match for you!”

Lyle went pink around the gills and started to talk over her. But Lavender was used to being heard on ski slopes, and could put even Lyle’s parade ground bawl to shame.

“So where is he, Jonathan? Is he coming later in the week? Did Aunt Julia say his name’s James?”

Ditzy leaned back in his chair and grinned, scenting blood. “Yes, do tell, Jonathan! Sounds like you’ve got some explaining to do.”

~*~*~*

“Oh, fuck off, the lot of you! So I’m shagging a bloke? Big fucking deal! I wouldn’t have had you pegged for homophobes.”

Ditzy rolled his eyes. “Jon, fucking listen to yourself! No one cares if you shag goats. And we all know you’ve shagged any woman with a pulse over the years. But the fact you’re screwing Lester is worth a fucking mention!”

“Why?”

“Does Major Preston know?”

Lyle shrugged.

“That’s a no, then.”

“It’s none of his business.”

“It will be if we get pulled off the project because you can’t keep your dick in your pocket.”

“No one said a fucking thing when those two were at it like rabbits!” Lyle cast a venomous glare at Ryan and Stephen.

Everyone started yelling at once, but it was Ryan’s battleground bawl that drowned the others out. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Now!” And then he was across the room and out of the door, slamming it behind him. 

“Congratulations, Jon,” said Ditzy wearily. “I think you’ve just found the elephant in the sodding room.”

~*~*~*

Two hours later, a tearful Lavender had been packed off to see her friend Chloe after being assured that the row hadn’t been her fault, and the assembled company were well into their cups. Stephen, it had turned out, had assumed Ryan had known he was coming on the holiday, and had to be firmly dissuaded from going home on the next flight – Blade had closed the topic down with a terse “you’re fucking staying!” Ryan still hadn’t returned. Ditzy, rather less sozzled than the others, reminded himself that this lot could find trouble in an empty room. And he wondered whether any court in the land would convict him if he bumped Lyle off and shoved him down the nearest ravine.

Bit by bit they’d extracted the story from Lyle about his relationship with Lester. Pulling teeth would have been easier, but it boiled down to what had appeared to be a faintly tipsy one-night stand. Ditzy privately thought that the chances of Lester doing anything he didn’t want to do under the influence of alcohol were nil to non-existent, but kept this to himself. 

As it happened, he remembered the evening in question. It had been some black tie government do, and he and Lyle had been nominated to accompany Lester, as Helen Cutter had been turning up where she wasn’t wanted. But Ditzy had been struck down by a 48-hour stomach bug (described by Claire as a dose of the Brummie Tummy, as she showed scant sympathy given her other half had braved a questionable prawn curry in a back-street Birmingham balti house). Finn had taken his place and swore he hadn’t spotted anything out of the ordinary – and looked most affronted when Blade commented that he probably wouldn’t have spotted Lester and Lyle dancing naked on the table.

One by one they drifted off to bed. Lavender returned just after midnight in a happier frame of mind, and banked up the fire before heading into her bedroom. Ditzy sent a brief text message, then stretched out on the sofa with the new Andy McNab.

Ryan appeared about 20 minutes later. You had to know him well to see that his usual deadpan self-control had been severely disrupted.

“I hope you haven’t been fighting,” said Ditzy, not looking up from his book.

“I never touched the stupid fucker. He … Hang on, how do you know …?”

“Because you always get into arguments when you’re in the wrong and storm off in a strop and drink too much.”

Ryan had the grace to look faintly ashamed, although he muttered that he’d only had two pints of French beer which tasted like piss, and anyway, it was only a misunderstanding with some stupid German soldier.

He plonked himself on the end of the sofa, staring into the fire. The scars on his face looked horribly vivid in the half-light of the room. He’d fought his way back from near-death, and was due to rejoin the ARC project in the new year. Ditzy would never forget the moment when Cutter had stumbled back through the anomaly in the Forest of Dean, gabbling about Ryan being dead. Ditzy had grabbed his rucksack, and with Lyle, Blade and Finn beside him, had gone through the anomaly. He’d never seen so much blood from one person. But somehow they’d got Ryan back to the 21st century and kept him alive until the paramedics arrived. Ryan’s heart had stopped once on the way to hospital and once in the operating theatre. But nine months later, he was almost back to full fitness, with just a network of scars to show for his ordeal.

That, and a broken relationship. He and Stephen had been together for nine months before the horror, and it looked like it was going to last. Two serious men, incapable of discussing their feelings, had suddenly looked relaxed and happy. And then Ryan ended it all from his hospital bed. All he would say was: “Stephen doesn’t need this shit.” 

They’d all tried to reason with him. Even Claire and Lizzie Preston had been called in to try Ms Nasty and Mrs Nice, but Ryan had turned away and refused to discuss the matter. Stephen had thrown himself into his work, taking more and more risks until Joel Stringer, the acting CO on the project, had threatened to get Lester to suspend him. This had done the trick, but Stephen, always painfully shy, had turned into a recluse, politely refusing all invitations to socialise with the soldiers despite having been a fixture at most of their social events over the past year.

Ditzy said quietly: “Let it go, Tom. At least rebuild your professional relationship with the guy.”

Ryan didn’t answer, jabbing a poker viciously into the fire and causing a fan of flames to shoot up.

“You can’t …”

Ryan stood up and fixed Ditzy with the sort of glare that scared the shit out of raw recruits. “Leave it, David. I mean it.” And he stalked off into the bedroom, shutting the door rather too firmly behind him. A sleepy collection of lurid curses could be heard from Blade and Finn’s room.

Ditzy sighed and picked up his book again. It was going to be a long week.

*~*~*~

By Thursday, Ditzy’s hit-list was as long as the M5. Stephen had barely strung a sentence together all week, Ryan had loured at all and sundry, while Lyle and Finn seemed to over-compensate by getting increasingly louder and more reckless on the slopes. Ditzy, who could cheerfully have crowned the lot of them, muttered to Blade over breakfast that they’d been on more enjoyable life or death missions with some fucker throwing grenades and rocket-launchers at them. Blade arched an eyebrow, but didn’t disagree. No one argued when Ditzy said he was giving skiing a miss for the day.

He spent a pleasant couple of hours wandering around the resort, stopping periodically for coffee. And he found a pretty silk scarf and glass necklace that he knew Claire would adore. He restrained himself from buying the French tat equivalent of a fart machine for his brother.

The town square boasted an ice rink, with cafes around the edge. He settled down in one, ordered coffee and some pastries, and pulled out his book to read. And then he spotted Stephen.

The young scientist was on the ice rink, skating easily and elegantly, but clearly totally immersed in his own thoughts. His concentration was broken, though, when a small girl in a bright pink bobble hat fell over in front of him and burst into tears. In one fluid movement Stephen stopped, helped her up and then brought a smile to her tear-stained face by something he said. He then offered her his hand and they skated around the rink together. Soon she was confident enough to strike out on her own again, shadowed by her new friend.

At the end of the session they skated over to the exit together and Ditzy could see the girl beaming at Stephen. They were joined by a young couple – clearly her parents. The father shook Stephen’s hand and the mother gestured to a table in the café next to the one Ditzy was in. Stephen hesitated for a moment, then nodded. 

The tables were close enough so that Ditzy could just about pick up Stephen chatting in French to the family as they were brought coffees and pastries. He clearly had a fan in the shape of the pink-cheeked little girl, who looked to be about six or seven, and was staring at him adoringly. Ditzy pulled up his hood and subtly adjusted his chair so that he was partially behind a canopy and hard to spot.

After 45 minutes or so, the mother took a photo of Stephen with the little girl, and then a passing waiter obliged with a snap of the whole family with the young Englishman. Slips of paper were exchanged – presumably email addresses – before the family left.

Stephen watched them go, the trace of a smile on his serious face. He then sat back in his chair, rubbed his eyes and ordered more coffee and food from the waiter. It was lunchtime now and the square and its cafes were getting busy. Ditzy decided it was time to go back to the chalet for a nap. He signalled to the waiter for the bill, left some Euros on the table, and slipped out of the café before Stephen could spot him.

~*~*~*

The chalet was deserted, but pleasantly warm. Ditzy knew that Lavender spent her days skiing and wouldn’t be back until about 4pm when she’d start making supper for the guests. So he had four hours of peace and quiet – a real novelty. He changed into a baggy sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms, threw some wood into the fire and settled down for a snooze.

At about 2pm he sat up, stretched and went for a piss. As he came out of the bathroom, he heard the front door open and slam, followed by raised voices. Ditzy muttered some imprecations under his breath and sat down on the bed. This was one argument he didn’t intend to referee.

“Why aren’t you skiing?” Ryan’s tone was flat.

“I didn’t realise I had to account to you for all my movements,” snapped Stephen.

“Stephen … Are you OK?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I just thought …”

“If you want the truth, you broke my fucking heart, Tom!”

“Stephen stop it …” Ryan’s voice was scarcely above a whisper.

“Why? So you can convince yourself you did it to save me?”

“You didn’t deserve to be saddled with a cripple.”

“You never gave me the chance to choose. Why didn’t you believe me when I told you I wanted to be with you forever? You kept telling me before how much you wanted me. So that was all lies.”

Ryan was silent. When he finally spoke, Ditzy had to strain to catch his words. “It wasn’t lies. I wanted you so much. I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

“Then you’ve a funny way of showing it.” Stephen’s voice was unsteady.

“Think about it, Stephen. I was badly injured and likely to be disabled for life. I’ve seen countless army marriages break up under the strain of dealing with shit like that. Partners think they can cope, but …”

“I would have coped. I told you I wanted to stand by you. Why wouldn’t you believe me? I loved you so fucking much. I still love you.”

“Stephen, stop it …”

The sound of quiet tears almost broke Ditzy’s notoriously unsentimental heart. He was relieved that now he could only hear random muttered words and phrases: “Please … Don’t … It’s OK … Now … Together … I promise … Yes …”

And then it went quiet and Ditzy decided he wasn’t venturing out to see what was going on. So he curled up in an armchair by the bedroom window with his book, periodically glancing out at the stunning view, but fervently wishing he was on the sofa at home next to Claire and her pile of marking, as she made sarky comments about her students. When he finally peered into the living room an hour or so later, Ryan and Stephen were asleep in front of the fire in each other’s arms. Ditzy thought for a moment, back-pedalled, then clambered out of the bedroom window, making sure he rattled the front door as he came back in. Ryan opened one eye. Ditzy mouthed ‘hoofuckingray,’ mimed applause, and went back to his bedroom, feeling vaguely like a character in a French farce.

~*~*~*

“Bobsleighing or snowboarding for the final day?” asked Lyle, dunking a croissant enthusiastically into what looked like a chamberpot of hot chocolate, and causing a small tidal wave.

“Oh, Jon, you should have said earlier in the week,” said Lavender reproachfully. “The bobsleigh track’s about an hour and a half away, and you really have to book in advance at this time of the year.”

“Bugger. We could go on spec …”

“Snowboarding will be fine,” said Ditzy. The thought of this lot wreaking havoc on a bobsleigh run wasn’t an attractive one – he could picture severed heads bouncing down the track as the idiots vied to outdo each other in macho posturing.

Although he soon had second thoughts when they got out on the slopes with the boards, which seemed to be the fashion accessory of choice for every poseur in Europe.

“Who wants to live forever?” said Ditzy resignedly, watching Finn launch himself down the slope with little regard for life or limb.

Lyle grinned. “Oh, I’m banking on hanging around for a good long time to piss off as many people as possible …”

About ten metres from the bottom of the slope, Finn went one way and his board the other. Those awaiting their turn all sighed in unison, then rolled their eyes in formation as he got back to his feet and waved enthusiastically to them.

Ditzy had to admit that once they all got the hang of balancing on the board, it was rather fun. A friend of Lavender’s called Seb had agreed to give them lessons, and he was enthusiastically strewing praise around in his posh boy accent as everyone finally managed a clear run without falling over. Stephen in particular took to it like a duck to water, and Ditzy noticed Seb giving him details of where he could continue the sport back in the UK.

They returned to the chalet, high on adrenaline and biting cold air, to find that Lavender had prepared a fondue for their last night. This caused much hilarity and ribald comments as everyone tried – and failed – to eat it politely. Blade cuffed Finn around the ear for making a most unfortunate comment about what the melted cheese reminded him of. And Lyle got yelled at for sticking his fingers into the dish to retrieve an escaped cherry tomato.

It was a full moon that night, and Lyle flung open the door to reveal an absolutely stunning view across the mountains. Blade went around filling their glasses with €2 wine – which at home would have resembled anti-freeze, but which was perfectly drinkable here – as they proposed a toast to Lyle for organising the trip and to Lavender for being such a fantastic chalet girl. 

“The nights are colder now. Maybe I should close the door?” said Lavender tentatively as a blast of freezing air made the fire flicker.

“Nah, we’ll be fine,” said Lyle, planting a sloppy kiss on her forehead.

Lavender rolled her eyes, clearly thinking that they needed their heads examined, as they sat out on the balcony, well wrapped up in coats and hats and gloves, proposing more elaborate toasts. And when Ryan suggested one to Stephen and slipped an arm around his waist, they all raised their glasses and no one batted an eyelid. Ditzy had made damn sure of that.


End file.
